


Don’t Remember What You’re Asking For

by cloudings



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Face Punching, Hand Jobs, Hannibal Lecter is Not a Cannibal, Homophobic Language, Love/Hate, M/M, NO VIOLENCE BETWEEN WILL N HANNIBAL, Or Is He ?, Passion, Sassy Will Graham, bcos mason verger .., jnless u count a bitten lip lol, teriyaki chicken.....
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 05:46:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21351217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudings/pseuds/cloudings
Summary: Will can’t read Hannibal like he can read everybody else who wants nothing to do with him. That doesn’t mean that they have to be friends. Will doesn’t want that, and as far as he’s concerned, Hannibal doesn’t either. At least, that’s what he thinks, until Hannibal is walking Will home and inviting him over for teriyaki fucking chicken andfinallystanding up to Mason fucking Verger.So Will doesn’t exactly know the state of their friendship/relationship/whatever it is. That also doesn’t stop him from wanting to fuck the guy.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 23
Kudos: 232





	Don’t Remember What You’re Asking For

**Author's Note:**

> SO I FINISHED HANNIBAL LIKE TWO DAYS AGO  
UHHHHHH  
i’m officially absolutely fucking obsessed  
what an amazing love story. i’m so emo. 
> 
> i had to write this bcos i want them to be ... happy
> 
> watch this get NO HITS bcos it came out so long ago 🥺😓🥺😓 if u read this u a real one
> 
> (title is from the song Glitter & Gold by Barns Courtney ... u know.. [the song from the best edit ever made ever in alll time ](https://youtu.be/RspfMI-rZpw)
> 
> come talk to me on twitter @greyclouding !

Will Graham isn’t exactly the pinnacle of all things normal. 

He’s kind of the exact opposite of that, actually. If there’s a direct oxymoron to the social construct of being Mr Popular, that’s him — Mr Friendless, Mr Avoided, Mr Shunned. Mr Unpopular. Forgive the sob story, he thinks.

He actually highly doubts it – highly – but he supposes that if people did ever talk about him, it would be to mindlessly gossip over the type of weird that he actually is. The rumours that fly around his head and compel people to hide behind their hands, hurrying to the company of their neighbours’ ears. It’s the only thing that keeps him from adding Mr Invisible to the never ending list of disappointing and embarrassing adjectives that surmise the extent of his high school persona. 

Not that they’re true, of course. Well, to an extent. The humiliating ones are true, not the worrying ones. The ones about his inability to hold a conversation without making a snide remark and his freakish ‘fear’ of eye contact — these are true, and most definitely are valid contributing factors to the reason why Will doesn’t have any friends. 

There are other ones. Darker ones. Will once had the cops visit him because so many students were whispering about the fact that he had apparently planned an entire school shooting. The fact that the household he resided in was completely against guns didn’t sway them. They let him off with a warning and a lingering wonder on what he’d done to deserve one in the first place. 

Freddie Lounds once told their entire grade that Will had killed a man and that’s why his parents didn’t want him; that’s why he lived from foster home to foster home. She’d told everybody that she’d found proof and was required by some made up law to keep it all to herself. His Neanderthal-minded peers had not seen through her desperate attempt for attention and instead had lapped up the story like a babe to a breast. 

They believed whatever they were told. Sheep. Will knows he’s not the only victim of such impossibly endless taunts and he’s not the first nor the last to be shoved into lockers and called pitiful names in hallways. He gets on with it. One more year of this bullshit and he’ll be out for good. 

Oh, and there are the rumours that he’s gay. Wherever they exactly stemmed from, he’s never able to totally corner. Maybe his eyes had lingered for just a moment too long when Zeller had been getting undressed for gym, or perhaps somebody looked too far into one of his offhand comments made in passing in class. Maybe it was just something that he was wearing. Did his hair wrong. Who fucking knows.

*

“That’s how he got his name!” says Freddie, stressing her point to her eager gossip-mongers, wide eyes and wide hair flouncing with her desire for recognition. 

Will’s standing in the shadows of the corridor, head ducked into his open locker in a half-assed attempt to blend in. Mason Verger’s locker is ironically placed entirely too close to his own and it makes a cause for far too much bloodshed – all the better to keep his head down and pretend like he’s not even there. It’s what everybody else does, anyway, when they’re not spitting half-truths behind his back. 

“It does seem like a silly name,” another girl is agreeing. “But why would the school call him by a nickname?”

“I heard,” Freddie feeds into it, “That he threatened Principal Crawford.”

“Threatened… To…–” Will rolls his eyes at the overdramatized pause, “– Eat him?”

Freddie must nod, because her crowd all gasp like she’s holding up a sign at a pantomime. Will’s not sure whether to be glad that, for once, he’s not the gruesome subject of conversation amongst her and her desperate friends, or whether to fret that there’s now a rumour going around that he’s a fucking cannibal. That’d be a new one. 

“Come on, Freddie,” another girl says. Alana Bloom. Will likes her. She’s never outright spoken to him, but she neglects to join in the taunts and she sometimes shoots him looks that almost seem apologetic. “The poor guy just got here, for crying out loud, and you’re already saying that he eats people?”

“Yeah,” says another. Beverly, perhaps — Will’s not too sure on her name. She seems okay. She’s pretty. “Besides, what kind of cannibal just goes and names himself Hannibal? Pretty shitty cover, really.”

“You’ll see,” Freddie scoffs. “He’s just as much of a freak as Will Graham is.”

Will suddenly feels like slamming the locker door into his head, but that may draw their attention to the fact that he’s actually there. So he doesn’t. He sucks in the comments threatening to spill out and wishes that he had some sort of immunity for a day. If he was able to say all of the things that he thought without having to worry about the looming threat of definitely being beaten up, he would talk the entire school into the ground.

But now that he thinks about it, grabbing his folder out of his locker and shutting it, the name Hannibal is a pretty fucking suspicious name.

*

“I’d like you all to say hello to Mr Hannibal Lecter.”

Nobody says hello. 

Will, especially. But he can’t take his eyes off of the man. There’s an air about him that somehow makes him seem superior to the rest of the people in the room. Even the teacher. Maybe even Will. 

He’s dressed smart-casual and Will has to wonders for a moment about whether it’s because of the fact that it’s his first day. Then he wonders why on earth he doesn’t have a bloody nose already. He looks as though nobody’s given him any trouble at all. If Will came to school dressed like that, he’d be a dead man. A dead man with the word FAGGOT spray painted in red across his forehead. No, there’s something – more. The authority about him extends far beyond this room. It’s like people have an inherent knowledge not to mess with him. He wonders if Garrett or Mason have seen him yet. 

Hannibal Lecter is groomed down to the last pristine blond hair on his head. It’s almost impossible to find a flaw about him — but Will considers being perfect an immense imperfection. There are smudges on his glasses that create a halo of light around the man at the front of the class when he looks at him and it gives off a heavenly illusion. Will’s not mistaken. He can tell this man is no angel. He’s definitely no God. 

When dark eyes impress themselves upon his own from across the room, it's enough to make Will startle in his seat. He blinks furiously, gaze darting around the classroom in desperate hope for an escape, but when he looks back, the man’s eyes are elsewhere. Another person to be weirded out by Will’s antics, he supposes. Nothing new. 

“Take a seat anywhere free, Mr Lecter.”

“Many thanks, Doctor,” he replies, and Will’s ears twitch with interest at the warm, polite voice riddled with a sweet, curious accent. Baltic, possibly Nordic, he debates with himself. At least he’s not the type of asshole to embarrass a teacher for the fun of it. Will hates class clowns. 

There aren’t a million free seats, but there are plenty that aren’t anywhere near Will. Psychology is one of those subjects where people sign up thinking it’ll be interesting and a breeze, and then drop out on the second week once they realise that there’s too much memorising and too much math involved. 

Hannibal Lecter selects a seat just out of Will’s reach. Still in his sight. Directly in front of him, just to the right, so whenever Will wants to stare out of the window to pass time, his eyes have to scan over Hannibal first. It seems deliberate. 

Hannibal’s more confident than Will is. He asks and answers all the questions that Will has in his head, as if he’s slipping in and out of his brain to find out just what he’s figured out and what he’s not understanding. He finds that lessons always go quicker whenever he has something to fixate on. This lesson speeds by quicker than any he’s had before; staring at the back of a stranger's head. 

*

Hannibal Lecter is in an almost alarming number of Will’s classes. They share psychology, biology, chemistry, and maths. He knows that Hannibal stares at him every time he enters the classroom and he knows that it’s deliberate whenever the man sits only several seats away from him. He intrigues him. He thinks that he intrigues Hannibal, too.

It’s been weeks and they haven’t spoken. 

Will supposes that it’s because Hannibal doesn’t actually want to be seen with him. It’s understandable, after all, considering the fact that their grade have seemed to warm up to Hannibal. Alana Bloom is rumoured to have blown him behind the gym but Will doesn’t think she’s that kind of girl. He doesn’t know yet whether Hannibal is that kind of guy. He thinks that Hannibal would have a lot of surprises up his sleeves in bed.

Despite the fact that their limited eye contact and teetering neighbouring in class hasn’t extended past this pitiful will-they-won’t-they, Will considers their acquaintance a plus. Hannibal doesn’t laugh or play along whenever some of the boys push him to the ground or spit harsh words at him, so they end up doing it less. 

His nonchalance when it comes to Will is both off putting and encouraging. Will yearns for the man’s attention. Perhaps it’s because he feels like the closest thing he’s had to a friend in years.

*

“Are you okay?” 

It’s a stupid question. Will had expected something more eloquent from somebody who had claimed to aspire to be a surgeon. It almost doesn’t sink in that these are the first words he’s ever spoken to him.

“Yep,” Will says.

“No,” Hannibal says, a quick nod and a quaint smirk seeping onto his face. “You’re not. I suspect you have some bruised ribs. Cracked, perhaps.”

“You got that from just looking?” he wheezes. “Not only my ribs that are cracked, huh.”

“I apologise. I am trying to help.”

“Help?” Will can’t help it, he huffs a laugh. “You watched them do all that. Helping now ain’t worth shit.”

There’s silence, for a minute, and then he says, “You have quite a mouth on you. You don’t use it nearly enough to defend yourself.”

Will uselessly wipes the blood off of his lips with the back of his hand and squeezes his eyes shut tight. Everything is too bright. He feels slightly dizzy. Lifting his shirt to swipe the sweat off of his forehead does no good, either. His arms ache and his abdomen feels abnormally tight. 

“Yeah. Well.”

He hears a deep breath. “If it makes you feel much better, I do not think you to be a freak.”

When Will opens his eyes to give him a robust and deadpan stare, Hannibal is much closer to him than he had originally thought. He’s sunk to his knees, probably dirtying his posh pants in the process because the ground behind these bleachers is disgusting. 

“But you think me to be a fag.”

Hannibal’s eyes slide from his exposed stomach to his face. He rolls up one sleeve and placed his palm onto his skin, just above his belly button. He’s pressing down. Feeling for something. Will isn’t sure whether he found it or not, and he doesn’t have time to ask, because Hannibal asks him, “Would I be wrong?”

Somehow, impossibly, his body becomes more tense. He replies, “You would be hypocritical,” and diverts his wide gaze to the hand still positioned on his stomach. It’s no longer pressing down. It’s tender. 

“I see. You think you know me, Will?”

Will reaches down. Grabs hold of his wrist. Tilts his swimming head. “You’re easy to read, Hannibal,” he lies. “But you’re interesting.”

He can’t tell if the answer pleases him or not because Hannibal is not easy to read, and he’s also gone in a second, leaving Will lying on the ground in a mess of drying blood and bruises. It’s his own fault. He’s used to driving people away. 

The school nurse comes running out to him five minutes later. He refuses to believe it’s Hannibal’s good doing.

*

Since telling Hannibal that he’s easy to read, he has become inexplicably more difficult to read. Will isn’t used to it. He’s used to deciphering every small blunder and crinkle of the skin. Hannibal has none. 

The next time Hannibal watches Will get beaten up, he doesn’t stay afterwards. The nurse comes again, quickly, but he doesn’t offer his semi-kind words again like I do not think you to be a freak. When the insults become more colourful, Hannibal does not so much has flinch. He stands by the poofter, retard, cocksucker and the kick after punch after kick. He watches. Sometimes, Will thinks that he likes it. 

“I could tell everyone,” Will says to him after a particularly painful beating before he can walk away, lying bleeding on the floor, curled up around his fresh fractures and old bruises. “Tell them you’re just like me.”

He watches Hannibal stand still. Deliberating his words, perhaps. He can’t tell. 

“Am I just like you, Will?” he asks. He doesn’t even turn to look at him. 

“Are you asking me if you want to fuck me? Because I think the answer to that would be yes.”

“You still think you can read me.”

“Tell me that I’m wrong,” he wheezes.

Hannibal leaves him. The nurse hurries in his place. 

*

“Why don’t ya’ want to look at me, Graham?” Mason is asking. His breath stinks and his hands are shaking as they hold him against the fence underneath the bleachers. It’s their favourite place. “Am I too ugly for ya?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” Will responds dryly, angling his nose away. 

“You’re happy enough to stare at Lecter. You stare at him everywhere.” 

“It’s hard not to when he thinks he owns an entire fucking room.” 

He gets punched in the face for that. He makes no noise, like a trained circus animal. He spits blood to his side and smiles when it splashes onto Hannibal’s shoes. They’re suede. 

“I think you wanna suck his cock. What do you think, Lecter?” He turns his beady eyes towards Hannibal. The man does not look impressed. Whether that’s with Will or not, he’s not sure. He hates that he can’t read him. “Told ya this guy was a shirtlifter, didn’t I?”

“Mason,” Hannibal says gracefully. “I request that you do not bring me into this.”

This actually takes him aback, a little. Will grins despite himself. 

“Why’s that? You his boyfriend?”

“No.” Hannibal’s smile is like a sheathed knife. “I am asking you politely.”

Will feels the air fall around him and he’s suddenly shoved to his knees. Another couple of bruises to add to the mix. His body feels like a canvas. 

“You ever sucked a cock, Graham?” he asks. At Will’s silence, he continues. “No, please. I’m genuinely curious. Tell me the truth.”

“I think you’re a little too fucking invested in my sex life to be harassing me for my sexuality,” he says in lieu of an answer to his question. He can never exactly pinpoint it, but there’s an element or ten to Mason’s being that physically revolts him — overlooking the constant torture that he inflicts, of course. He’s unsure as to how Hannibal can stand the company. He seems like such a refined and sensible person. 

“How many have you sucked, William? Ten? Twenty? Too many for you to remember? Just enough to get you out of juvie for that man you killed? Or did you suck his cock, too?”

However this man could be related to Margot Verger, Will would never know. She’s a gorgeous woman, polished and gracious, everything the opposite to her twin brother. He supposes that the homosexuality that she’s so open about created the worm in Mason’s head that hates gays so much. His thoughts are again interrupted by a punch. 

“Tell me,” he demands, voice still as slimy. “Or you’re going back to your so-called home with four less teeth.”

Will’s never known Mason to back away from a threat. So, he speaks.

“One,” he whispers. 

Mason leans closer, hand circled around his ear. He’s grinning at Hannibal to let him in on the joke and Hannibal is merely staring at them. “What was that?” Mason asks.

“One,” Will says, louder this time but only by a margin. He can’t stand to look in Hannibal’s direction.

“Was it Principal Crawford’s? I can imagine that’s the only reason that he’d allow you to continue attending. You know, with your record of attempted shootings.”

“I’ve never —” 

Mason grabs a handful of his curls, index finger pressed to his crusting lips. “Hush,” he coos. “Who was it?”

Will’s mouth snarls upwards. “Your father.” Slap. “He wasn’t as aggressive as you.” Slap. “You know, he was rather begging for it, actually.” Punch. 

“Who was it?” he asks, squeezing his face tightly. Another bruise, perhaps. 

Will smiles giddily. “Jealous?”

He shuts his eyes before the next impact. It does not come. He remains kneeling like he’s praying to a God who is not there when he hears a hard thud on the floor next to him. When he opens his eyes again, Hannibal is extending a hand. It looks dangerous. He takes it.

“Took you long enough,” he comments. Hannibal brushes down his shirt and retrieves a handkerchief from inside his jacket pocket and holds it to the side of his head.

“Maybe I was curious, as well,” he admits, gently tilting his head up by the jaw. He dabs the handkerchief at Will’s his bloody skin. It doesn’t hurt, for once. He looks over at Mason’s collapsed body.

“What did you do to him?” 

“Simple smack to the carotid artery. Instant unconsciousness,” he says simply. Like it’s nothing.

Will sticks his tongue in his cheek. “Not dead, then.”

Hannibal’s gaze flickers to his own. He’s entertained. That, Will can read. “No,” he confirms. “Not dead.”

“Hm.” He nods. “So you’re not going to eat him?”

That one actually tugs at the corners of Hannibal’s mouth. His eyes scan his face deeply. Will has the distinct feeling that he’s looking through to the back of his skull. 

“I do not eat rotten meat,” is all that he says in response. It sends a thrill through his body down to the very tips of his toes. He can’t tell whether he’s serious or not. He’s seemed incapable of humour until now. 

The handkerchief slides to his nose. He hadn’t felt the throbbing in it until now. He knows that the inside of his cheek is bleeding from the scratch of his teeth and he’s probably fucked up his stomach again but that’s the extent of his injuries, this time, apart from the ones that Hannibal is tending to. It’s a good thing that he doesn’t mind the taste of his own blood.

“What was his name?” 

Will blinks. “Sorry?”

“His name, Will.”

A deep breath. “Dimmond. Anthony Dimmond. We were sixteen and curious.”

Hannibal stares at him in a way he’s never been stared at before. Not by Mason Verger. Not by Freddie Lounds. Definitely not by Anthony Dimmond. He says, “And now?”

“Eighteen, and curious,” he tells him straight, gaze dropping to Hannibal’s mouth. 

He doesn’t say anything in response to this. He finishes wiping the blood off of his face and he tucks the handkerchief back into the pocket of his jacket. Like he’s saving it for later. Then he straightens Will’s collar and flattens down his hair to the best of his ability. 

“You were feistier with your words today.”

“Yeah,” Will says. “Someone told me I should be.”

Hannibal smiles at him. Will perceives it as genuine before wondering how long Hannibal has had to practice it. He smiles back at him, anyway, licking his lips that taste of blood and insults. 

“You going to go and fetch the nurse for me, Doctor Lecter?”

Hannibal’s smile twitches wider. “No,” he says. “Let me walk you home.”

*

Hannibal walks Will back to his pitiful excuse for a house every day from that confusing point onwards. He doesn’t ask why Hannibal does it and he doesn’t intend to. People have stopped physically abusing him, so that’s always a plus, but Will might miss the bruises once they finally fade from his skin. 

He’s a little embarrassed, at first. His house is nothing to marvel at. You can't exactly call it a house, really. After finally turning eighteen, and therefore being kicked out of the foster care system (for better or for worse), Will was deemed an adult — finally eligible to inherit that of which his parents had left to him before they died. 

It’s rickety and old and Will can never be bothered to tidy it up so it looks like utter shit from the inside as well as the outside. But he has a bed and he has his dogs. So he’s okay with it. He couldn’t give less of a shit about how other people perceive it. 

Hannibal doesn’t give away any indication towards his true feelings about Will’s abode. He’s too polite. Too well-mannered. He can picture Hannibal living in some kind of fucking actual castle or mansion, or some shit. He certainly dresses like it. Certainly acts like he was raised by a nanny who was paid too much per year.

This time, when Hannibal walks Will home, Will finally invites him inside. It’s polite, he reasons with himself. Hannibal likes polite people. So now they sit in the lounge together, awkwardly perched on either ends of the couch. Hannibal had declined any water so Will is the only one drinking. He sips nervously at his glass. 

“You live alone,” Hannibal says. He’s fishing, but Will doesn’t care. 

“Yeah.” He nods. Takes a sip. “I was in foster care until my eighteenth birthday. Parents are dead.”

“I see.”

“What about your parents?” Will asks tentatively. 

Hannibal raises an eyebrow at him. “What about them?”

“Do you live with them?”

It takes him a moment, but he responds, “I live with my aunt and uncle.”

Will lifts his arm, rubs the back of his neck. “You sure you don’t want a drink?”

“Yes. I am fine, Will.”

“Why the fuck did you come in then?” he asks nonchalantly, if not a little exasperated. “If you’ll pardon my French.”

Hannibal turns his head, turns to gaze at a Will straight on. “Because it would be impolite to refuse. I am not a rude man, Will.”

“No. You’re just manipulative. Not rude, at all.”

“You think me manipulative?”

“I think anybody who goes from watching somebody getting beaten up everyday to walking them home everyday that quickly has got to be after something.” 

There’s a moment of quiet. And then, “And what is it that I’m after, Will?”

Will tilts his head, tongue in cheek. He takes a sip of his water. “You tell me.”

When Hannibal stands up he practically towers over Will, leaving him to crook his neck and stare up at him. He rakes his eyes obviously over Hannibal’s body, appreciative of the way that his fit sits on him today. He wonders — has wondered — what he looks like underneath the fancy clothing. He’s a man who likes to keep up appearances, after all. 

Will takes a cocky sip of his water as he makes direct eye contact with the man. It’s sexual. Will can feel his body reacting to the energy of the room. He curses his hormones and his being a teenage boy, but somewhere inside of him, he can sense that Hannibal is reacting in almost the same way. 

“You think I want you to suck my dick.”

Will hums. “You said you were curious.”

“You did, as well, if you remember.”

“Peas in a pod.”

Hannibal smirks down at him. “Go on, then.” 

“What?” Will splutters embarrassingly in response. He places his glass of water down onto the end table. “Are you asking me to —”

“Suck my dick? Yes.” He nods. He nods like it’s nothing. “I can assure you, I’ll be more pleasing than Anthony Dimmond.”

Will can only blink. “You know him?”

“Now, I do.”

He releases a long breath. “Why does that sound like you’ve killed him?”

Hannibal laughs, but he does not answer the question. Will doesn’t want to dwell on that fact for long. He reminds himself that this is simply a fellow classmate, not a criminal mastermind. No matter what Freddie Lounds believes. And he’s pretty sure that if the guy was a criminal mastermind, he’d have killed her already.

“If you want to do this, do it. I do not play games, Will.”

“I think you do.” Will sits up straight, his face at just the right height with Hannibal standing in front of him. He makes a conscious decision to lick his lips when he looks up at him through his lashes. “I think you’re always playing a game, Hannibal. And I think you’re used to winning.”

Hannibal places a hand to the back of Will’s head, letting his curls slip through his fingers. He watches them rise and fall in his grip curiously. “Yes,” he says. “I am.”

“Then I’m sorry, Doctor Lecter,” he hums, lifting his arm and placing his hand to Hannibal’s wrist. “I won’t be another one of your victories.”

His smile is more like a smirk in response. He slips his fingers through his hair again, straightens his glasses. Then he steps away. He says, “I was hoping you would say that,” and then, “See you tomorrow, Will,” as he’s walking out of the front door, leaving Will staring after him like a loon.

He goes to his bedroom and jerks off harder than he has done since he first discovered what masturbation is, and when he orgasms, it’s with Hannibal’s name dying on his lips. He doesn’t even realise that he falls asleep straight after until he’s waking up to licking at his face at eight in the evening because Winston wants to be taken out. 

Fuck Doctor Lecter, he thinks. Or, don’t do that at all.

*

“Mr Graham,” a woman says kindly when she opens the door. There’s a smile on her face that isn’t usually associated with his name. “Principal Crawford would like to see you in his office, please.”

The whispers begin. Will doesn’t even need to look to see that the whole class is staring at him, wondering what it is that he’s done wrong now. He gulps, turns to his teacher. “May I be excused?” he asks dryly.

Once she’s given her affirmation, Will grabs his stuff and scuffles out of the depths of the classroom at once, not looking back to see whatever look is carved into Hannibal’s face about the situation. He doesn’t care. 

“How are you, Mr Graham?” the woman asks once they begin walking.

“I’m fine.”

“It looks like you have some bad bruising.” 

“Don’t we all?” he retorts. She stays silent for the remainder of their trip. 

Once they arrive at the office, Will doesn’t dignify the Principal by staying inside the waiting room like everybody else. He said that he wanted to see him, so he places a curt knock on the door before letting himself inside, holding it open for the woman behind him. She smiles at him again, stepping inside and shutting the door with a click. 

“Mr Graham,” Mr Crawford says, standing up in courtesy. 

“Mr Crawford,” he responds shortly with a nod, sitting himself down in the chair facing his desk. Mr Crawford observes him for a moment before sitting himself back down as well. The woman is still positioned by the door, and for an absurd reason, she gives Will the impression of a bodyguard standing by.

“You don’t look well,” the headmaster tells him. Will scoffs a laugh.

“Thanks,” he says.

Mr Crawford sighs, leaning onto his desk and even going to the trouble of painting some pity on his face. “Why didn’t you tell me about the violence, Will?”

“Because the last time I did that, one person got suspended and the others filled in in his place. And then it got worse afterwards. Forgive me for not leaping at the opportunity to double this shit again.”

“Please mind your language,” he tells him, gaze flickering over to the woman. 

“Oh, of course, terribly sorry. Next time they’re beating me to a pulp on the floor, I’ll mind my language then, too.” He shuts his eyes, fingers drifting underneath his glasses to rub them. “Why am I here, Jack?”

“Will.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Refer to me as Mr Crawford, please.”

“You said I could call you Jack, last time you visited me in hospital.” He raises an eyebrow. “Why am I here?”

Jack studies him for a moment before succumbing to his sigh, shaking his head. “It’s about Hannibal Lecter.”

“Hannibal Lecter,” Will deadpans. “So the violence was just a side piece, huh?”

“Absolutely not,” Jack says quickly. “I’ve been told that he’s been coming to your aid.”

He pauses for a moment, before tilting his head. “Define what you mean by that.”

“Protecting you.”

“Then you heard wrong. He saved my ass once, after watching the worst be done. All the other times, he just stood by, like everybody else.”

“I hear he’s been fetching the nurse for you every time.”

Will shrugs. “Whoop-dee-doo. He’s a fucking miracle worker.” 

“Mr Graham,” he scolds.

“Sorry.”

“Since Mr Lecter has been seen hanging around you, or whatever they call it nowadays, this violence has decreased, am I correct?”

Will purses his lips. “You’re correct.”

“Then I suspect that he’d had some words in regards to you to his peers who have issues with you. Now, if only he could get Freddie Lounds to calm it down, eh?”

He quirks a small smile at that. “That’d be the day.”

Jack chuckles. “Will, this could be good for you. Keep him close. It seems to be helping your case.”

“You mean, let him help me because the school doesn’t want to?”

A sigh. Another one. “The Vergers are a very influential family on the school board, Will, and —”

“And that’s more important than the boy with no family. I get it.” He nods, standing up from his seat. “I’m going to go home, if you don’t mind signing me out.”

“Will, you aren’t finished for the day.”

“Yes, I am, Jack.”

They share a stern look between them, and when Will is content that Jack isn’t going to stop him, he leaves the office and makes his way to his locker. He doesn’t give the woman a second glance on the way out. He’s decided that she gives him the creeps.

He doesn’t care that Hannibal has momentarily suspended the bout of violence against him. It’ll always start again, and he just thinks that it’s fucked up. It’s as if Hannibal did it to make Will rely on him; a sense of fucked up power play that has Will in the deep end. One wrong move, and Hannibal can set his dogs on him again. Give them the go ahead. He’d rather just keep to a schedule.

But guess who is standing at his locker when he arrives:

“Will.”

“Hannibal.”

Will doesn’t spare another look at him, opening his locker and scrambling to grab his stuff from inside. The door is blocking his view of the other man, but he doesn’t seem to care. He walks around and stands on the other side of Will, just so that he can see him properly.

“What was that about, in the office?” he asks.

“Why aren’t you in class?”

“I asked to leave.”

“And of course, you were just allowed.” Will shakes his head. “Unbelievable. No wonder you’re so used to everybody doing as you say.”

“You didn’t do as I said.” There’s a hint of humour in his voice. Like he’s impressed by the fact. “What did Jack wish to speak to you about?”

“I’m failing to see why it’s any of your business.”

“Because it was about me,” he says, smiling slightly when Will turns to look at him with furrowed brows. “Was it not?”

“How did you…?”

“The woman that came to collect you,” he tells him. “Her name is Chiyoh. She is my aunt’s handmaiden.”

“Your family has fucking handmaidens? Jesus Christ, how rich are you?”

“I was going to ask if you would like to walk me home today. I would like to make you dinner.”

Will pauses after pulling his bag out of his locker and throwing it over his shoulder. He stares at Hannibal, jaw locked, trying to keep control of his blinking. He says, “You know there’s a joke in there, somewhere.”

Hannibal’s smile is back. “Is that a yes, Will?”

He reaches under his glasses, rubbing his eyes yet again. His own worst enemy. “Yes. But we’re leaving now. I’m not staying in this shithole for another three hours.”

*

Hannibal has a car. This shouldn’t really surprise Will, other than the fact that he’s been walking Will home everyday, meaning that he’s walked from the school to Will’s house, just to walk back to the school to pick up his car. Will doesn’t know why the guy couldn’t have just driven him home. He would have refused the ride, but he hadn’t even asked. 

He settles into the passenger seat and breathes in the scent of pine. He can’t see any one of those tacky air fresheners (he wouldn’t expect one – not in a car like this) and so he assumes it’s just the natural scent, owed to cleaning and keeping it kempt. Hannibal must have felt ill, walking into Will’s dump of a house. Well. He can clean it himself if he’s so disgusted by it.

“Do you drive, Will?” 

He draws his eyes away from the blurring sidewalk to watch Hannibal as he drives. His gaze flitters over his hands, large on the wheel. “No,” he says.

“I can teach you, if you would like.”

Will rests his head against the window. “No, thanks.”

“It’s a very useful skill to have.”

“I’ll Uber.”

“That’s expensive. University is also expensive.”

“Universities also make you pay for parking, so.”

Hannibal’s grip on the wheel tightens. He licks his lips. He’s smirking. He says, “I like it when you are snappy.”

“Good for you,” Will replies. “I’ll take that to mean that you finally have somebody that you deem interesting.”

“Then we find each other interesting,” he says. “Aren’t we lucky?”

*

Hannibal’s house is a mansion. Literally. Will sees it and kind of wants to kill himself so that Hannibal never has the opportunity to come and see his shed of a house ever again. Must be four, maybe five stories high; Will can see a huge garage that’s basically the size of his house anyway; he can see a diving board around the back. What he wants to know is why the fuck somebody who lives like this is going to a public high school. 

“You’re literally royalty,” he comments in awe, getting out of the car to marvel. “You’re a great Baltic Lord or something, aren’t you? That’s your secret.”

Hannibal laughs, but does neither confirm nor deny the half-joke. Will notices that he’s not parked inside the garage. He wonders how many cars — vehicles in general — are in there. 

“Allow me to show you to the kitchen,” Hannibal says, unlocking the large wooden front door and stepping aside to let Will in first.

It’s gorgeous. It’s a large mix of whites and blacks that gives off a kind of siamese-gothic impression, like the coloration of the Addams Family actually came from the aesthetic of their skin and hair. The fantastic interior is almost something that Will would compare to Fitzgerald’s interpretation of Gatsby’s house: awesome, literally, in every sense of the word. The staircase itself is bigger than Will’s lawn and there’s a large mirror draped in gold that reflects the entrance to the house. Will can see just how Hannibal watches his behind as he walks towards it — and then meets his eye in the mirror with a deep smirk that betrays all of his intentions. Will gulps. 

The kitchen is downstairs, making the approximated number of floors that Will had estimated increasing in number. There are no windows, except for one that takes up an entire wall, looking out into the depths of a gigantic pool outside, as if it were an exhibit in an aquarium. At least Hannibal is attractive, he thinks without prompt, he would hate to have to watch somebody like Mason Verger in his trunks whilst dealing with food. Things might get messy. 

“This is where I most enjoy myself in the house,” he says, making Will quirk a disbelieving brow as he thinks of bedrooms. 

“You cook often, then.”

“Quite. It is a hobby of mine. I study dishes from all continents on Earth, and I perfect them to my liking.” He smiles, his fingers brushing over what appears to be a notebook. Will supposes it’s full of recipes. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“No, thanks. I don’t drink tea.”

“Ah, I see. You are patriotic?”

“No, no. I’m more of a coffee addict.”

“I can tell.”

Will bites back a reply to this, setting about to gaze around the kitchen with wonder. It looks like it was designed for at least fifteen cooks at once. He has to ask himself whether Hannibal has – servants, for lack of a better term. That’s what rich people do, right? Hire people to do all of the work for them because they can’t be bothered to get off their fat asses?

“Are you the only one that cooks?” he asks instead.

“Yes. I cook for my family every evening,” he says, and Will hadn’t been anticipating that. It seems the man does love cooking. “Do you have a preference for any meat in particular?”

Will shrugs. “You can’t go wrong with chicken,” he says.

“You are not wrong there!” Hannibal declares, an excited smile taking his face. It’s almost cute. Will shakes that thought out of his head before it can fester. He watches Hannibal flip open the notebook and flick through page after page, large, delicate fingers caressing the paper so as not to crease it. His fingertip sticks in one place on the decided page. “Have you ever had chicken teriyaki, Will?”

Will shakes his head. “Can’t say that I have. Is that Japanese?”

“Indeed. My aunt is Japanese. With her, she brought delightful dishes that I have taken a liking to. This is a very basic dish, I do hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he says truthfully, looking around without ease. “Can I help?”

The tilt of Hannibal’s head makes him want to smile back. “You wish to be my sous-chef?”

“Okay,” Will concedes. “I heard that things always taste better when you make them yourself, and I never cook.”

“You don’t cook?”

“Sorry, did I spoil your housewife fantasy?”

“I have already told you that I enjoy cooking. I was simply asking you a question. I apologise if I led you to misinterpret my words.” 

Will pauses, looks down. He tenses his jaw and tries not to allow his face to flush red in embarrassment. “Sorry,” he says, quietly as if he did not want himself to hear it. “You make me want to get defensive.”

Hannibal looks like he’s analysing, allowing the words to sink in. His eyes narrow for just a moment. “Then, get defensive. If one bottles up their emotions, one will eventually explode.” He picks up a knife. Will hadn’t seen him take it out. “You don’t want to explode, do you?”

He can’t seem to take his eyes off of him when he replies with a husky, “That depends,” and the sight of Hannibal then having the audacity to wink at him — Will may have a problem. He blames it on not having anything but his own right hand as a partner for the majority of his (late) adolescence.

*

Hannibal makes conversation over their collaborate meal about shit like poetry and Achilles, with fucking Shostakovich playing over their speech. The cutlery probably costs more than Will would get if he tried to sell a kidney, and the dishes that they serve the teriyaki chicken on were definitely made for something more delicate, like la bœuf bourguignon or gigot d’agneau. 

Will had been assigned to mixing together an array of ingredients that had ranged from honey to sake to garlic, and then had taken the job of frying the chicken itself after watching Hannibal thoroughly de-bone the thighs. His fingers looked experienced, digging into the flesh and picking out the unwanted at such precise points. Will had pinned the excess saliva in his mouth to the expected meal and ignored the nagging thought that, yeah, it was just his fingers that had him almost undone.

Hannibal had made the sauce to perfection, Will decides as he caresses the meat with his tongue, his taste buds flaring with excitement. It had been worth it, all of the ‘No, Will, when it is fried, it will crisp’ and ‘Do not overcrowd the pan.’ At one point, he stood behind Will to watch over his shoulder as he maneuvered the chicken around the pan with a wooden spoon and Will had a strange realisation that he wasn’t watching the food at all, he was watching him, and it’s a sick joke, but he thinks same thing? 

“I am glad that you agreed to eat with me, Will,” he says, meeting Will’s eye directly, using the tip of his long finger to wipe some of the sauce away from his lips. Will wipes his own on realised impulse. The last thing that he wants is to be made a fool of in front of Hannibal Lecter.

“As am I,” he says in turn, because it truthfully wasn’t unpleasant. “You are a good cook.”

“It is you who did the cooking.” There’s a smile plastered on his face like he’s just done something. “Perhaps we will make a housewife of you, yet.” And he raises his fucking glass of water like he’s not too young to drink and it’s a glass of the finest (and most expensive) red wine that the world has to offer. 

“You’re very calculated,” Will responds after a moment or two of allowing it – him – Hannibal – to sink in, pushing his glasses up the rim of his nose. “I don’t believe that there is anything you don’t do without motive.”

“Is that so?” is all that he says.

Will nods shortly. “You know, they say that kind of thing about serial killers.”

Tight-lipped (sheathed knife) smile. “Indeed? Do you wish to be a police officer, Will? FBI, perhaps?”

“I don’t know,” Will says. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why he does much of anything when he’s around Hannibal. “I want to help people.”

Hannibal nods. “Teaching might be a good contender for you to consider.”

He shrugs. “I’m not all that good with kids.”

“You neglect the fact that you are a kid, yourself.”

“I’m legally an adult.”

“And, what? You can enter a lottery or you can watch pornography. You still need guidance. Need to learn.” 

“Is this a general you for all eighteen year olds, or are you talking specifically to me?”

“Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.” 

Will places his cutlery together to the left of his plate. 

*

Over the next month, Will attends the Lecter household at least three times a week and gets treated to some kind of fancy, foreign dish that he’s never heard of before in his life. Hannibal lets him help out on the cooking because it gives him something to do other than sit around idly and thinking of how their lives compare. He doesn’t see Hannibal’s aunt or uncle once, though that might be because it seems that Hannibal always has a time limit on their meals and insists on driving Will home so that he can control when he leaves. The only part of the house that he’s been in is the kitchen (and the bathroom accompanying the kitchen in the corridor leading there), and so the rest of the house is a complete mystery to Will — there may not even be an aunt or uncle that exist, or perhaps Hannibal is keeping a cult wandering around his upper corridors. Neither preposterous idea seems that unlikely.

They don’t tend to venture to Will’s house too often unless it’s to pick something up before they go to Hannibal’s. Will doesn’t mind. He likes the tastes of luxury that he gets and bringing someone like Hannibal into his house only makes him feel shame (and then guilt — because his parents left him this, for Christ sake).

That’s why when there’s a knock on the door at approximately 10 PM on a Friday night, the last (and yet somehow the very first — who else was there to visit him?) person whom he expected to see was Hannibal. 

“Good evening,” he greets, like he’s picking up a date. “I hope I am not disturbing.”

Will wants to say yeah, you are, it’s fucking ten in the evening, but he never gets to sleep until three these days anyway, so it’s not like he actually was interrupting something. His excitable teenage Friday nights consist of staying on the couch with only himself and his dogs and flicking through different programmes (it’s a miracle that he can get cable) until he finds one that he somewhat doesn’t mind and eventually falls asleep watching it. 

“No,” he tells him. “You’re not disturbing anything.”

It occurs to him when he’s stepping aside to allow Hannibal into the house that he feels, suddenly, extremely underdressed, with Hannibal in his fucking button up and smart trousers, and it makes him want to yell because this is his fucking house and he can wear pyjamas in the evening, that’s acceptable, that’s fucking normal. 

The dogs flurry to him when they get to the lounge like he stinks of bacon and — he sniffs — he does not, at all, he smells like his usual pretentious aftershave, and so he resents the dogs for making him feel even more important than he already does. 

His eyes flick to the television. “Ah, you enjoy True Crime?”

Will shrugs. He hadn’t even really been watching it. “I guess. It’s interesting.”

“Shall we attempt to solve the crime together?” he asks, and sits down in Will’s seat (and he knows that, the fucker, because there’s a fucking dent in it from where he’d just gotten up, and his glass of water is at the side of him) and he picks up the controller to the television, turning it off of pause. He smiles up at Will, who is momentarily frozen, innocently. Then he pats the side on the couch which Will knows is going to be freezing. “Come, sit,” he says, and one of the dogs raises his head because that is definitely something that you would say to a dog. 

Will sits, anyway, body angled away from him, arms folded stubbornly. His mouth is dry again but he refuses to ask Hannibal to pass him his water. 

After twenty minutes of watching, Hannibal says, “It is the husband.”

“No, it’s not,” Will retorts immediately. Because, no. It’s not the husband.

“Why do you say that?”

“Why do you think it’s the husband?”

Hannibal shrugs. “It’s always the husband.”

“Not in this case,” he tells him, unconsciously turning his body, shifting closer. “It’s the neighbour.”

“The neighbour?”

“Yes, the neighbour. He was overcome by jealousy. He’s unmarried and he doesn’t have any kids. He believes that Mrs Marsh is in love with him because he’s delusional and desperate for any kind of female attention. He’s probably a virgin. Probably a history of harassing women, if not strangers then probably teachers, colleagues, other shit like that. I mean, look at the fucking actor they got to play him in this reenaction; it’s as if the casting call was just ugly bastard who looks as if he watches upskirting videos on PornHub.”

“And yet the husband appears charming,” Hannibal adds. He’s watching Will very closely. Will matches his gaze. Doesn’t let his face soften. 

“He’s distraught. Look at him. Even his ring looks polished, that means he takes care of it. There are photos of the two of them, but not too many that it could be overcompensating for something. Most of them are with the kids, and they’re — they’re happy,” he stresses, as if he’s trying to prove something to Hannibal when they could just keep fucking watching. “It’s in the details,” he says. “It’s always in the details.”

“And the details have brought you to the neighbour.”

“Obviously,” he says. “He’s just sad, and lonely, and every day he has to wake up and watch the Marshes have a happy family; kids on the swings in the yard and Mr Marsh cooking on the grill. He wants to be a part of it. Mrs Marsh was probably a lovely person and complimented him, something along those lines, and he took it the wrong way. Snuck in whilst he knew the kids were asleep, because he’d been watching the lights in the windows, and he knew that Mr Marsh was away, because he’d only seen her coming and going, as opposed to the both of them. So he goes over and he propositions her. She says no, he gets — not exactly angry, but he feels betrayed. He doesn’t rape her, because he cares about her too much, but he still thinks she’s in love with him so he —” Will pauses, takes a breath, tries not to focus on how the man opposite him is staring at his lips instead of his eyes now. “— He picks up the nearest thing that he can and tries to, literally, knock some sense into her. Once he realises what he’s done, he feels guilty. He shuts her eyes and cleans up the blood, so that her kids don’t have to see it when they wake up in the morning.”

He watches Hannibal lick his lips. “You are very empathetic, Will.”

“Yeah,” he says, croaky, breath hot against his own face. “I guess I get how killers think.”

Hannibal kisses him, then. Will’s first thought is a vicious Oh, Gods before he’s kissing him back just as deeply, letting Hannibal slide those long fingers through his hair and pull on it ever so slightly. His second thought is to wonder whether there were any minor details that Hannibal had given to indicate anything close to what he is doing now, pressing his tongue against Will’s lips and Will — Will letting him. He opens his mouth obediently and preens when Hannibal releases a hum of approval, his thumb slipping a delicate and appreciative line up his cheek. 

He doesn’t even know when or how it happens, but Will’s on top of him, now sitting in the other man’s lap as they trade tongues and swap saliva, stars appearing behind Will’s eyelids that almost entirely block out the reluctant thoughts that threaten the end of this encounter. He’s holding onto his face so gently that it doesn’t suit his intimidating and mysterious persona. Will wonders how long he’s been aching to do this — has it been as long as I have? 

He’s getting hard. He wants to curse himself for it because it’s the one thing that could possibly ruin the situation if Hannibal feels it. He’s an eighteen year old boy and it's clearly a natural reaction to being impromptuly kissed by somebody with the appearance and energy of Hannibal (especially when he’s never really done this kind of thing — not really), but Hannibal might not want it to go that far and Will could hardly blame him. He imagines that Hannibal has slept with countless people, each and every one of them far more impressive than Mr Unpopular over here; who is already tenting his pyjama pants and leaking an embarrassingly large wet patch on the front of them. He’s holding onto the fact that Hannibal’s eyes are closed — for now.

Of course it would suit them to finally make out in front of a crime scene being investigated on the television. It’s some kind of sick irony that doesn’t sit that well with him, and yet at the same time he loves it because it’s the irony that tickles him so. He wants to make a joke about Hannibal being turned on by murder but it doesn’t seem entirely appropriate and he’d rather get murdered himself than break this kiss first. 

Will’s not the most experienced when it comes to this kind of kissing, either, which makes him sort of nervous and kind of apprehensive to make any first moves. He supposes that Hannibal would have said something by now if his technique wasn’t up to standard — Hannibal is the most pretentious little bitch and he always wants the best. It makes Will wonder why, in this moment, at least, he wants him. But Hannibal. Christ. It’s not as though Will has a plethora of experience to compare it to, but he can’t help but think that even if he did, he’s ten thousand percent sure that Hannibal would still be the best. He’s kissing him in a way that makes Will want to lose his mind (he already is) and topple off of the couch to snuggle between his legs and do anything that the man would ask of him. It feels fucking dangerous and it thrills him.

Will releases a treacherous whimper as he feels Hannibal suck on his tongue and he feels a terrifying bout of panic pump through his body when it makes Hannibal stop almost immediately. Their lips and their tongues remain entangled and pressed hot against one another, but it seems like Hannibal is considering something, thinking something over and weighing the possible outcomes. Will likes it when Hannibal loses the ability to think, overcome by natural instinct and intriguing impulses — thinking is too dangerous. Especially in times like these. They’ve not spoken about anything, so it’s all a silent what is this? 

But whatever it was that he had been considering becomes immediately apparent when he comes to an extremely satisfactory decision (at least, in Will’s opinion). Hannibal continues to kiss him, making relief spread down his chest and replace the anxiety that was beginning to fester inside his gut. His dick responds immediately to the continuation of the kiss and he’s about to thank God for a second time that Hannibal doesn’t notice it — when the bastard rolls his hips in such a way that he can definitely feel Will’s erection. But that’s not what has him completely floored. What has him floored is the fact that he could also feel Hannibal’s. 

Will’s startled, but not so much so that he stops kissing the man back (he’s not stupid, for fuck sake), so he continues, now feeling a little more brave. He wasn’t shying away, it seems, and so Will is determined that he doesn’t get overpowered. He places one hand on Hannibal’s throat, caressing it softly, and the other on Hannibal’s hip. He’s tempted to glide his fingers underneath the shirt that he’s wearing, but it’s tucked into his pants (of course it fucking is — Hannibal fucking Lecter) and he doesn’t think he’s quite ready to reach down beneath the waistband just yet. He settles instead for allowing the hand on his neck to dip just beneath the collar of his shirt, his fingers tickled by the beginnings of soft dustings of hair and his palms fondling his sharp collarbones. 

Hannibal tugs on Will’s curls and he finds himself gasping into the kiss, mouth parting and eyelids fluttering open. He sees the hungry look in Hannibal’s eyes (why were they open?) and he can feel the utter want that is shared between them. Hannibal presses his hips upwards and Will gasps again, and can only moan - loudly - (he’s so glad that he lives alone) when he feels the other man lean in and bite at his bottom lip. He doesn’t bite it off, Will has to note (mindlessly, quietly remembering Hannibal the Cannibal) but he nibbles at it, nails scraping his scalp, and it’s so dangerously erotic that this time Will is the one to grind down onto the other man’s lap, desperate, but he won’t let himself beg. 

His cock is standing up straighter than a board (or one of those nuns with a pile of books on her head, his mind supplies, and it’s really not the right time). Will can feel Hannibal straining against it. It’s such a real glimpse — it feels like Hannibal finally losing control and settling down a façade and showing something fucking real. Basic human impulses. Because he is human — Will wants to drive that home. 

The kiss ends and the world doesn’t implode, though Will supposes that that’s because Hannibal takes to attacking his neck instead, skimming his teeth over his throat and sucking, leaving behind inevitable marks that Will doesn’t want to fade. He knows, realistically, that he does need them to fade (at least before Monday — definitely before Monday) but holy fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck— the idea of getting so fucking marked up, so obviously owned makes his cock twitch even more, and at this point he’s basically forgotten how they’ve gotten to this point because everything is a blur of pain and pleasure and his eyes on him - all over him, eating him up, drawing him in, and his soft voice with the soft accent humming Will in the way that none of his other peers have done before. 

There’s a slight predicament, though, that comes along with the fact that Hannibal is so preoccupied sucking his neck instead of kissing him; Will Graham can get fucking loud. It’s not his fault, really, that he lets his mouth run off and he lets whines and whimpers tumble through his lips with every single time that Hannibal hums or licks or does anything against his neck, or every time that there’s a sweet brush of ecstasy against his dick. It’s mildly embarrassing, of course, but if he’s come so far as to let Hannibal see his leaking hard-on and awkward kissing skills, he supposes that anymore wouldn’t kill him. So he allows the sounds to whisp through his lips, signalling his affection and his approval, and his — oh, fuck, there — desperation. 

“Yes,” he hums appreciatively, slipping his hand so far down Hannibal’s shirt that he’s (mildly) worried that the buttons might pop off. “Oh, God, yes. You’re good at this – so good – feels so good.”

The speech is breaking another barrier between them. He’s not really sure why he does it, but the desire is driving him — his words out of his mouth and his hands all over Hannibal’s body. Here is the entry and the entryway is open and enticing and terrifying and Will understands that he can’t turn back now, and he doesn’t want to, and the entry is enticing him, with a big brown sign that’s flashing and that should be green, but it’s not, because Hannibal’s eyes are a perfect shade of hazel and they, when Will looks closely, reflect his own eyes and the blood in the television, and the lust that’s carrying them through. 

When he parts his lips from Will’s neck, Will is overcome with a mortifying desire to burst out into tears. He thought that he might be able to come in his underwear just from his mouth on his neck. 

Dangerous. 

“You sound so beautiful, Will,” he tells him, mouth red and puffy and in place with his sweaty forehead and flushing cheeks. He’s gazing at Will so tenderly that Will may break. His palm cups his face and Will feels an overwhelming urge to lean into it and suck his fingers into his mouth. “Is it alright if I touch you?”

Is it alright? Will wants to scream, and he tries not to laugh, because he can’t think of anything better than the idea of Hannibal touching him at this moment and it’s bizarrely out of place for him to ask, in Will’s mind. They’d come this far on impulse. Will doesn’t want to have to think about it. 

He nods his response eagerly and nibbles on his lip as he gazes downwards, watching Hannibal’s hand drop from his face to his crotch, skirting the tip of his index finger over the damp patch tainting his sweatpants. Will sucks in a harsh breath that seems to draw an entertained chuckle out of Hannibal, which just seems to urge him on further. He dips his fingers beneath the waistband and pulls them down, revealing the incredibly strained fabric of his aged underwear which might just be too small for him (it’s not like he expected them to be seen tonight, for crying out loud). His large hand wraps itself into a caress of the tent of his erection and he massages it softly, staring up at Will to measure his reactions and repeat whatever has him moaning the loudest. Will bucks into his grip on more than one occasion and Hannibal smiles at him when he digs his fingers into his skin, like he wants Will to be as turned on and yet as frustrated as he can be. 

“You like this?” he asks.

“What do you — fuck — think?” Will asks, panting between his words like he’s speaking in broken English. “I’d like it better if you actually touched me.”

“I will,” he says, the smugness evident in his voice. “If you ask me nicely.”

Will wants to refuse him. Just because. Because he can, because he doesn’t need this to happen and because they can both just walk away from this right now and never discuss it again. 

No. He says, “Define nicely.” And he captures Hannibal in a deep kiss, and pushes him back so that he’s flat on his back and Will is on top of him, pressing him down, and they’re both grasping onto each other like the other might run away any second because he might and it rings in his head. Hannibal is holding onto Will’s lips and dragging them down into him, rubbing their cocks together again, confined by layers of rude fabric that Will is frankly considering cutting off. His glasses are sliding off of his nose due to the sweat pooling on his skin and gravity taking its course, but he both doesn’t care and also would find it absolutely hilarious for them to fall off and whack Hannibal in the eye. 

Will unbuttons and unzips Hannibal’s trousers and shoves his hand inside, and the bastard isn’t wearing any underwear — he must have come here, suspecting — and it takes Will aback for a moment, because Hannibal is the last person that he would expect to go something as casual as commando, and Hannibal takes the opportunity to nibble at his lip again and then lick over them, then between them. Will’s consciousness returns only when he feels the entire length of his tongue slide over his own and he wraps his fingers around the hardness that he can find. 

It’s a strange feeling to hold onto a dick that isn’t his when you’ve only been used to your own for a number of years (no, he’s not counting Anthony). Hannibal is certainly girthier than he is, and as he stretches to press his thumb to the leaking slit at the top, he deigns to admit that he may be slightly longer, as well. He blames it on the fact that the Eastern European’s are renowned for that particular advantage and Americans, not so much. (God. He just couldn’t have been born in Russia, could he?) 

It’s not off-putting. Rather the opposite. He retrieves his hand – and Hannibal’s dick – out of the depths of his trousers and pulls away from the kiss to shove down his own sweatpants and underwear, releasing his own dick and allowing it to have a gander at its new friend. Hannibal isn’t just looking at his dick, he’s looking at all of him, admiration and lust aflare within his eyes. Will understands how he feels on so many different levels that it almost aches, and he lurches to reconnect the two of them, rolling his hips as he flicks his tongue inside of his mouth. Hannibal moans with him, this time, for the first time, when he utilises his large hand and brings the two of their members together, fingers circling the two of them as they huddle against one another. Hannibal’s hand is slick with moisture both from sweat and from their leakage and it feels like God himself is touching him as he begins to move his hand. 

It’s unlike anything that Will’s ever felt — ever even dreamt of feeling. Of course it would be down to Hannibal Lecter to introduce him to another outstanding experience and leave him with something to compare to for the rest of his life. Hah. Will doesn’t think he’s ever going to be able to go ten seconds without thinking of this moment – Hannibal’s hand, Hannibal’s lips, Hannibal’s small grunts – again. He’ll never tell him, of course. Too much to add to that already gigantic ego of his (which seems to echo something else, his mind adds unhelpfully).

He shivers into the kiss and rocks forwards as Hannibal’s free hand draws around to grab his ass (where did that come from?) and he doesn’t pull away or push him off because he doesn’t want to. He kind of likes the way that it feels on him, like Hannibal is claiming something, and now his treacherous mind is full of images of Hannibal burying his cock balls deep inside of him, bending Will over this very sofa, or taking him up against the wall underneath the television, or maybe even sneaking a quick one in the locker rooms where anybody could walk in — 

He whines wildly at the thought, his breath stuttering and coming in short, his heart beating at about ten times its usual pace, hammering against his ribs and sending blood down, down, down instead of all around his body, and that must be why he feels so light-headed. 

“Yes,” Will practically sings, hardly even separating from the kiss to pronounce it, the word coming out desperate and immediate. “Oh, yes, Hannibal — Hannibal, I’m —”

“Are you close?” he asks, finishing Will’s sentence, so he already knows the answer. At least he’s almost as breathless as he is. 

“Yes,” he tells him, nodding at once, frantic. “God, keep doing that, Hannibal, keep — yes, yes, yes.” He can feel it coming; feel his coming coming, approaching dangerous and anticipated. He’s not sure how long it’s been since they started and he’s sure it’s not long enough to warrant no embarrassment at all but he doesn’t give a fuck because there — yes — there it is — overcoming, overpowering him, and he kisses Hannibal again as he orgasms, shuddering through the continued hand movements. 

Hannibal moans into his mouth and bites down hard on his bottom lip and Will knows that he’s finishing, too, synchronised almost to fate’s decision. He’s well aware of the fact that they just desecrated a shirt that must be worth the couch that they’re laying on in that very moment and that fuck, from earlier? He still couldn’t give less of one. He just made Hannibal Lecter moan into his mouth and cum holding their dicks together. 

There’s a heavy yet comfortable silence that falls over them like a sheet of snow, and Will doesn’t know why it seemed like the room was filled to the brim with noise before they’d both finished. The only thing he can hear is their heightened panting and he figures the only explanation is that his thoughts were too loud for himself in such ecstasy. Hannibal is stroking his thumb over Will’s forehead and Will realises that he has no idea when he’d removed that from his ass. 

Hannibal has the decency to tuck both of their dicks back to where they should be (surprise, surprise) and Will couldn’t care less about the remnants of their fun on Hannibal’s shirt, but of course Hannibal does, and so he just takes it off and places it onto the floor strategically (so that nothing gets on the carpet — but Will’s pretty sure that this rank carpet has had worse fluids than just cum on it anyway). Then he pulls Will’s head down to rest on his bare chest and he smells like man and he hates to even imagine what he himself smells like right now. So, he doesn’t. He cuddles in to the other man, listening to the sound of his rushed heartbeat and glad that he isn’t alone. 

They're arresting the neighbour of the victim when they both look back at the television (he can’t see much; his glasses are smudged to high fucking heaven), and Hannibal rubs his arm comfortingly before he says, “I knew that it was the neighbour.”

Will huffs, still attempting to catch his breath, and so his speech comes out rather half. He answers, “I know.”

One of the dogs runs through and snatches Hannibal’s discarded shirt. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed, a kudos or a comment would mean the WORLD and more!!!! i was so excited to learn that this fandom is still active!!!!  
come talk to me on twitter @greyclouding ! btw, come and drop me a message because i have nobody to talk to with about hannibal rn 😓😓


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